


Shattered

by JanharaMeepWatson



Series: One-Shots [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, F/M, His Last Vow, If you have not yet seen HLV do not read this, M/M, based upon a headcanon of mine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 20:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2322896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanharaMeepWatson/pseuds/JanharaMeepWatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After escaping from hospital, Sherlock contacts John, telling him that he'll reveal who his shooter was.  John meets him at Leinster Gardens, but why on Earth does Sherlock want him to wear a bulletproof vest?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shattered

**Author's Note:**

> Before we begin, I do not own any of the dialogue here that you may recognize. I have taken bits from the episode. I was entertaining the idea of this fic after re-watching HLV one day, and I thought, what the hell, why not write it? I needed something to work on while I had writers-block for And So It Begins. :)

John sat in his old armchair, staring at the crescent shaped crystal bottle of perfume on the small table beside him. He had a sudden flashback from when he and Sherlock had broken into Magnussen's office,

_‘Claire-de-la-Lune, why do I know that_?’

‘. _..Mary wears it_.’

and prayed that his conclusion was wrong. He barely registered the sound of his phone ringing, and only realized what was going on when Mrs. Hudson held his phone right in front of his face, saying that it was Sherlock and insisting that he answer at once. John took a deep breath and did just that.

"Where the hell are you?" He demanded when he answered.

"John," Sherlock's voice was incredibly pained. "Do you still want to know who shot me?" He asked.

"Of course I do!" John answered. "But first I want to know what the hell you're doing out of hospital. You got shot not two days ago!!"

"John, that's not important right now-"

"Not important? You nearly died, Sherlock and you still have a long recovery ahead of you which has now probably doubled since you thought it was okay to just get up and leave against physicians orders!" John shouted.

"John! I need you to focus!" Sherlock snapped, bringing John's rant to a screeching halt. "Do you, or do you not want to know who shot me?"

John took a deep breath. "You know I do." He answered evenly.

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "Then I need you to do exactly as I say."

"Sherlock, what's going on?" John asked warily.

"Please, John! Just...just trust me." Sherlock begged.

John took another deep breath and stood up, already reaching for his coat. "What do I do?" He asked.

"I'm going to text you an address." Sherlock said. "Come as quickly as possible and I’ll explain the rest when you get here."

"Alright." John said. Sherlock could tell from the tone of his voice that John had slipped into 'soldier mode.'

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered, then hung up.

John set his phone down and slid his arms into his coat. He was just turning down his collar when his phone went off with a text from Sherlock. John scanned the message, and then left the flat and hailed a cab. He spent the duration of the ride pondering who could have possibly shot Sherlock. His first thought had been Magnussen, but he then recalled that the man had been unconscious at the time of the shooting. His thoughts strayed back to the bottle of perfume sitting in 221B, and he shook his head, as if by doing so the thoughts would disappear. The cab began to slow down, and John looked up to see where he was. Frowning, he paid the driver and got out, pulling his coat closer around him. He was looking about questioningly when a door to his left opened.

"Sherlock?" John called.

"In here, John," Sherlock whispered.

John rushed through the door and finally got a good look at his best friend.

"You look like hell." John breathed. His hand instinctively sought out Sherlock's wrist, determined to check his pulse while his eyes washed over the thin man before him. He was pale and his skin was clammy, and John could tell that what little morphine he had in his system was the only thing keeping Sherlock on his feet.

"I know," Sherlock admitted. "But we can deal with that later, right now we have things to do."

John nodded. "So, the shooter?" He prompted.

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm going to lure them here, but I need your help in order to extract some information from them."

John stared at Sherlock for a moment, then nodded his head. "Alright, what do you need me to do?" He asked, resigning himself to the fact that Sherlock wasn't going to just flat out tell him.

Sherlock walked down the narrow corridor to where a wheelchair and IV drip sat. He picked something up off of the seat and held it out to John.

John eyed the bulletproof vest skeptically. "Seriously?" He asked.

"Please, John?" Sherlock breathed.

John heaved a sigh and pulled his coat off. He reached for the vest but Sherlock shook his head.

"Put it under your shirt." He instructed. "I don't want the shooter to know you have it on."

John nodded, and wordlessly removed his shirt. He then put the vest on and Sherlock held it in place as he strapped it down. John then redressed.

"These things have to be custom made per person," John murmured as he buttoned his shirt. "When did you get this?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A-after the incident at the pool," he admitted.

"You've had it all this time?" John asked, slightly bewildered.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded. "And luckily we've never had to use it until now."

John nodded, and then eyed Sherlock. "You aren't wearing one, are you?"

Sherlock was already shaking his head before John had completed the sentence. "What for? I've already been shot. I'm already incapacitated whereas you are completely fit and able to give chase, if it comes to that."

"Makes sense," John mumbled. He made sure that his clothes were covering all evidence of the vest before looking back at Sherlock. "Now what?"

Sherlock gestured towards the wheelchair, and john sat down. Sherlock moved quickly and silently as he turned John's coat collar up and ruffled his short hair to make it look as full as possible. He then positioned the IV drip to look as if it was attached to John's hand.

"Are you going to explain what you're doing, sometime today perhaps?" John asked, a small smile on his lips.

Sherlock chuckled softly. "You are going to be my...stunt double, as it were." He fiddled with an earpiece and some wires. "This way the shooter thinks you are me and keeps their attention focused on you, thus giving me adequate time to deduce all I can from my vantage point back there," he pointed his thumb over his shoulder.

"And the earpiece?" John asked.

Sherlock was silent for a moment as he positioned the earpiece so it wouldn't be seen poking out of John's ear. "I'm going to call the shooter. Billy's waiting on the corner, ready to hand them a phone and a Bluetooth. This," he tapped the earpiece in John's ear, "allows you to listen in."

"Okay," John nodded.

Sherlock bit his lip, and then placed his hand on John's shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. "John, you must promise me something..."

"What is it?" John asked gently.

"Whatever you may hear, no matter what you might be compelled to do...promise me you will not move a muscle until I turn the lights on." Sherlock pleaded.

There was something in Sherlock's voice that made John's stomach make an uneasy lurch. He took a deep breath, and nodded. "I promise." He whispered.

Sherlock nodded, and looked like he was about to say something else when he squeezed John’s shoulder and stepped away. They waited in silence until Sherlock’s phone vibrated with a text message. He glanced at the message, and then looked at John.

“Ready?” Sherlock asked.

John squared his jaw, and nodded. “Ready.”

Sherlock watched John for a moment longer, and then tapped in the shooter’s phone number and dialed. He put his phone to his ear, and waited. The voice that John heard next was the last voice he imagined he’d hear.

“Where are you?” Mary asked.

John looked up at Sherlock, horror and pain filling his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock gave him a sharp look, and pressed his finger to his lips, warning John to keep his promise. John bit the inside of his cheek, and clenched his hands into tight fists in an effort to keep still.

“Can’t you see me?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, what am I looking for?” Mary demanded. She sounded mildly annoyed. John closed his eyes and counted to ten, trying to calm down.

“The lie,” Sherlock said. “The lie in Leinster Gardens hidden in plain sight.” He paused for a moment. “Hardly anyone notices. People have lived here for years and never see it, but if you are what I think you are it will take you less than a minute. The houses, Mary. Look at the houses.”

“How did you know I’d come here?” She asked. John could hear something brushing softly against Mary’s earpiece. He assumed it was her hair, swishing about as she looked around, trying to find the house Sherlock was talking about.

“I knew you’d talk to the people no one else would bother with,” Sherlock said offhandedly.

“Hm,” Mary huffed a laugh. “I thought I was being clever.” She muttered.

“You’re always clever Mary, I was relying on that.” Sherlock murmured. “I planted the information for you to find.”

“Oh!” Mary breathed. John could hear her voice faintly coming from outside. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax, knowing that she’d be coming inside any second now.

“Thirty seconds,” Sherlock noted.

“Well, what am I looking at?” Mary asked.

“No doorknobs, no letterbox, painted windows,” Sherlock listed. “23 and 24 Leinster Gardens: The empty houses.” He took a breath. “They were demolished years ago to make way for the London Underground. A vent for the old steam trains. Only the very front section of the houses remains, it’s just a façade. Remind you of anyone Mary?” Sherlock’s voice had turned somewhat cold and condescending. “A façade?”

There was a loud click, and Mary gasped. John had no idea what she was seeing, but whatever it was, it was surely scaring her.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said, not sounding sorry at all. “I never could resist a touch of drama.” He paused for a moment. “Do come in, it’s a little cramped.” Sherlock looked at John once more, and then slipped back into the shadows. John closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then opened them, preparing himself for what was about to happen.

“Do you own this place?” Mary asked.

“Hm,” Sherlock sighed. “I won it in a card came with the Clarence House Cannibal. Nearly cost me my kidneys but fortunately I had a . . . straight flush. Quite a gambler that woman.”

John watched as Mary’s shadow appeared against the wall, and then she was there. She looked around a bit before her eyes fell upon the figure at the end of the corridor. It took all of John’s strength to remain where he was, breathing rhythmically so that Mary would believe that it was an incapacitated Sherlock sitting there instead of a well and able John. He gnashed his teeth together, glaring from the darkness at the woman he thought he knew.

“What do you want, Sherlock?” Mary asked. Her voice sounded smaller now.

“Mary Morstan was stillborn in October 1972.” Sherlock stated. John’s stomach flipped. So, he didn’t even know his wife’s true name. He suddenly felt sick and took a slow and silent deep breath to calm his nerves before Sherlock continued, “Her gravestone is in Cheswick Cemetery where, five years ago you acquired her name and date of birth, and thereafter her identity.” Mary began to walk towards the figure slowly, keeping her eyes focused the entire time. “That’s why you don’t have friends from before that date.” Sherlock paused for a moment.

John was suddenly thrust back in time to when they had been planning the wedding. He remembered Sherlock’s passing comment on how Mary was loosing weight, and Mary’s response: ‘Hm, orphans lot. Friends, that’s all I have,’ How could he have missed it!!

“It’s an old enough technique known to the kinds of people who could recognize a skip-code on sight, and extraordinarily retentive memories . . . “ Sherlock trailed off.

Mary’s expression hardened as her steps slowed to a halt. “You were very slow.” She stated.

“How good a shot are you?” Sherlock asked next. John’s stomach twisted, and he watched Mary, trying to anticipate her next move.

Mary pulled a gun out from under her coat, readied it, and held it at her side. “How badly do you want to find out?” She demanded.

Sherlock’s voice suddenly had a note of urgency added to it. “If I die here, my body will be found in a building with your face projected onto it.” Oh, that’s what Sherlock had meant by a ‘touch of drama,’ John thought to himself. John cleared his head of these thoughts and kept his eyes focused on the woman before him. “Even Scotland Yard could get somewhere with that.”

Mary nodded to herself, as if she were considering the weight of Sherlock’s words. “True,” She sighed. She then looked up, and her eyes flashed dangerously. “But by the time they find you, Mary Morstan will have never existed.”

Before John could even open his mouth, Mary raised her gun, took a split second to steady her arm, and fired two shots aimed directly at his chest. The force of the shots knocked the wind out of him, and he doubled over his lap, wheezing as he tried to breathe through the pain. He vaguely remembered hearing Sherlock shout his name just after Mary pulled the trigger. He heard Mary gasp sharply, and drop her gun. Apparently their deception had worked. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his hands griped the arms of the wheelchair so tightly his knuckles were white. He heard footsteps rushing towards him, and looked up to see the lights on, and Sherlock kneeling before him, prodding his chest. John hissed in pain.

“Nothing broken, I think,” Sherlock murmured, relief filling his voice. “But you’ll have a nasty bruise.”

John nodded, and once a majority of the pain and initial shock had worn off, he stood up and glared at Mary. She stared at him, her mouth open in horror. Moments later, the door opened again, and Anthea walked in with one of Mycroft’s suited minions. She looked to Sherlock for instructions.

“John?” Sherlock asked him, allowing him to make the final decision.

John ground his teeth together, and then walked past Mary, trying not to jostle his rather sore chest. Sherlock followed him silently. John paused beside Anthea and glanced at her.

“Get her out of my sight,” He whispered fiercely. “I’ll talk to her later.”

“Done.” Anthea nodded.

John watched for a moment as the man walked towards Mary, picked up her gun with a gloved hand, and then placed it into the evidence bag Anthea was holding. He then grasped Mary by the arm and led her out of the building. John stepped outside, Sherlock close behind, and watched as she was put into the first car. She didn’t even look at him as the car pulled away. Anthea stood by the second car, and held the door open.

“Where to?” She asked.

“Hospital.” John ordered.

“John, I don’t—“

“Sherlock, do us both a favor and shut up.” John snapped. “You’re meant to be in hospital, and I need an x-ray, so hospital it is.”

Sherlock fell silent and nodded. John eased himself gingerly into the car, and Sherlock did the same, grunting in pain as the movement tugged at his stitches. Anthea got in across from them and told the driver where to go. The ride was deathly quiet, only interrupted by the occasional ping of Anthea’s phone. When they got to the hospital, there were two wheelchairs already waiting for them. John really didn’t want to use one, but as a doctor, he knew better than to refuse. Sherlock was whisked away to a private room with Anthea following, and John was taken to get his x-ray. When he was done, Anthea took him to Sherlock’s room while he waited for the results.

An hour later, the detective was wheeled in on a hospital bed. He was out cold, but John recognized the telltale signs of anesthesia. Sherlock was already hooked up to an IV drip, and the nurse hooked him up to other machines before leaving them in silence. It took Sherlock just under an hour to wake up.

“Mr. Holmes is on his way here,” Anthea told John shortly. “I’ll wait outside until he arrives.”

John nodded to her, and then she slipped into the corridor. Once she was gone, John looked at Sherlock.

“Did you know?” He asked.

“Did I know that the woman you married was a CIA trained ex-assassin?” Sherlock clarified, his words still a bit slurred. “No, I did not.” He paused for a moment. “I knew something was off . . . but Mycroft would never divulge anything.”

“What do you mean, off?” John asked next.

“Her accent was the first flag,” Sherlock explained. “It’s nearly undetectable, but her current accent is not her original one.”

John thought for a moment. “You said CIA . . . so she’s American?”

“Was,” Sherlock corrected.

“What was the second flag?” John asked softly.

“She recognized a skip-code on sight,” Sherlock said. “Normal people wouldn’t be able to do that.”

“Normal people,” John scoffed, mostly to himself. “Is everyone I’ve ever met a psychopath?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered after a pause.

“That was a rhetorical question, Sherlock.” John muttered. He heaved a sigh and held his head in his hands. “Seriously, what did I do to deserve this? To deserve her?”

“Everything,” Sherlock stated.

“What part of ‘rhetorical question’ do you not seem to grasp?” John snapped.

“I’m being serious, John.” Sherlock murmured gently. John looked up at him, and resigned himself to one of Sherlock’s lengthy explanations. “You were a doctor who went to war,” Sherlock began. “You’re a man who couldn’t stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high,” Sherlock paused for a moment and took a breath. “That’s me by the way, hello!” he raised his hand and wiggled his fingers in John’s direction. “Even Mrs. Hudson used to run a drug cartel . . . not to mention the exotic dancing.”

“What does any of this have to do with—“

“John!” Sherlock interrupted. “You are addicted to a certain lifestyle.” He said rather bluntly. “You’re abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people . . . so is it truly such a surprise that the woman you’ve fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?”

John ground his teeth together and shook his head. “That doesn’t change the fact that she shot both of us.” He countered.

“No, it doesn’t.” Sherlock agreed gently.

John was silent for a few moments. He looked out the window as he continued to speak. “How did you know she would try to shoot me?” He murmured.

“I didn’t.” Sherlock said honestly. “But I was preparing for many possible outcomes, one of which included her shooting what she thought was me.”

John glanced at Sherlock. The detective was looking back at him with a strange expression on his face. John couldn’t quite determine what it was. He was just about to ask what Sherlock was thinking when the door opened, revealing the elder Holmes.

“Hello gentlemen,” Mycroft said, polite as ever. “I hear the doctor had to replace your stitches little brother. You’ll be off the grid for quite some time.” Mycroft glanced over his brother, and then turned to John. “The results of your x-ray are here, Dr. Watson.” He handed John one of two envelopes he was holding. “Severe bruising, but fortunately nothing broken.”

John glanced over the paper, and nodded. “Thank you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft looked down at the second envelope, and took a breath. “John, there is . . . something else I feel you should know.”

Sherlock caught a glimpse of the envelope, and snapped his gaze to his brother. “Do you really think now is the time, Mycroft?” He demanded hotly.

“He deserves to know, Sherlock,” Mycroft said softly.

“I’m right here, you know,” John muttered irritably.

Mycroft looked at him, and John could have sworn that he had a look of pity on his face. Sherlock glared at his brother as he continued to speak.

“Abigail Grace Renee Adams, or Mary Elizabeth Watson, as you know her, is in my custody.” Mycroft explained. “The first thing we did was run a series of tests to establish her physical wellbeing, as well as the health of the baby.”

John’s stomach dropped. He didn’t like where this was going. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “The baby isn’t mine, is it?” He asked, his voice void of any emotion.

Mycroft hesitated. “N-no, it’s not.” He confirmed.

“Whose is it?” John asked next.

“Dr. Watson, I don’t think it wise to tell—“

“Whose. Is. It?” John asked again.

Mycroft heaved a sigh. “David’s.” He conceded.

John nodded, and just sat there for a moment. He finally rose out of his chair, wincing as he did, and went to stand by the window, effectively turning his back on the Holmes brothers. Mycroft went to his brothers’ bedside and looked him over.

“Mummy wants to know if she and father can come and visit you later,” Mycroft said softly, so as to not disturb John.

“She’d still come even if I said no,” Sherlock sighed.

“I know.” Mycroft nodded. He looked up at John, and could faintly detect the slight shaking of his shoulders as the soldier tried to cry as silently as he could. “You know,” Mycroft continued softly. “I always told Dr. Watson that you needed him,” He paused and looked at his brother. “Now, brother dear, he needs you.”

“I know,” Sherlock nodded.

Mycroft heaved a sigh and placed the second envelope on the side table. “I must go now. Paperwork and all that. I’ll let mummy know she’s welcome to visit. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Fine.” Sherlock nodded again.

Mycroft spared the two of them one last glance, and then quietly left the room. Sherlock stared at John for a few minutes before clearing his throat to get his attention. John turned his head slightly to the side to let Sherlock know he was listening.

“John, I—that is, if you—“ Sherlock sighed miserably. “Honestly I don’t know what to do.” He admitted. “But if you need a, what’s the phrase, shoulder to cry on? Though perhaps my shoulder isn’t the best option at the moment. Perhaps my arm would do?”

John laughed once through his tears, but he did come to sit by Sherlock’s bed. He placed his hand on Sherlock’s forearm so he wouldn’t disturb the IV site on the back of his hand, and leaned his forehead against his upper arm. Sherlock didn’t know if he should pat John’s shoulder or something, so he simply remained still. They stayed like that for a long time before Sherlock spoke.

“You know,” He murmured. “I was wrong earlier.”

“About what?” John asked, his voice thick from crying.

“You don’t deserve this,” Sherlock said. “You’re a good man, John Watson. You deserve a good life.”

John chuckled humorlessly. “I’m not a good man,” He protested. “I’ve killed people.”

“You’ve protected people,” Sherlock argued. “Myself included.”

John was silent for a while, as if pondering Sherlock’s words. Eventually he lifted his head and used his free hand to wipe the tears from his face.

“I don’t know what to do,” John admitted.

“Well,” Sherlock hesitated. “Seeing as I have no experience in this area, I don’t know either.”

John heaved a sigh and looked down at his lap.

“However,” Sherlock continued. “If you’re in need of a place to stay, Baker Street is always open to you.”

John looked up quickly to stare at Sherlock. “S-seriously?”

Sherlock plucked up what courage he had the energy for and placed his hand over where John’s rested on his forearm. “Of course,” He murmured. “No matter what happens, Baker Street will always be your home, John.”

John visibly relaxed, and he smiled a bit at his friend.

“Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> In the words of Loki: Taa-daa!! 
> 
> PS: If any of you read And So It Begins, I am almost done with the next chapter :) It's taken me a while to make everything flow nicely :D


End file.
